


If Only

by isabel_archer



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 08:34:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3603468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isabel_archer/pseuds/isabel_archer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Petyr x Sansa ficlet inspired by the season 5 trailer. Angst, manipulation, and more angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Only

On the last night of their journey he invited her to his tent for dinner. They had made camp in a stony gorge near a quick-running stream. It was cold, and there was precious little grass for the horses, but they were protected from the worst of the wind, and, more importantly, from the inquisitive eyes of travellers on the main road.

 

In the morning they would arrive at Winterfell. Having delivered her to the Boltons, Lord Baelish would leave at once, bound for King’s Landing and the chaos unfolding there.

 

 _Avenge them_ , he had said. But the closer they grew to Winterfell the less appealing this sounded.

 

After several glasses of wine—she hadn’t been very hungry, but the wine was dark and warm and sweet—Sansa said, “Do you ever wonder what it would be like to—well—to—”

 

“Yes?” he prompted.

 

“To be someone else.”

 

“To be someone else . . . ?” His brow creased, and he rubbed the back of head. He was tired, she realized, considering the shadows around his eyes and mouth.

 

“Yes,” she said. “I mean—do you ever think about what it would be like to be someone not involved in all of this? Someone who never thought of Lannisters and Starks and Baratheons. Or, if they did, thought of them like . . . well, like people in a story. Far away. Hardly real.”

 

He was leaning back in his chair, now, watching her through narrowed eyes.

 

“For instance,” she said, gesturing with her empty goblet. “If I were an ordinary person, I think I’d like to live . . . oh, I don’t know. Someplace else. Someplace far away. Braavos, maybe.” Her eyes fluttered shut. “I’d live in a stone house high on the hill, overlooking the water.” She was blathering a little, but that was all right. The talk warmed her as the wine did. “My house would be all covered in ivy,” she added, “and I’d have a beautiful courtyard. I would grow roses there—all colors—red and pink and yellow. I’ve always loved roses.” It was one of the reasons that Highgarden had sounded so appealing, once.

 

He was silent a moment, then brought his own goblet to his lips. “I have a house in Braavos,” he said. “It’s on a pine-covered mountain, with a fine view of the Purple Harbor. There’s a lovely little courtyard, too.”

 

Her face heated. That was all right, she told herself. That was good.

 

He swallowed, set the goblet back on the table, and smiled. Like many of his smiles, it did not quite reach his eyes. “I’m afraid that there are no roses, though.”

 

“Well, there wouldn’t be,” she said, after a beat. “Not yet.”

 

Something in his face shifted, then; some interior knot had been pulled loose by her words.

 

“There are mummers’ playhouses in Braavos,” he said, leaning forward. “Too many to count. Beautiful costumes, and songs, and dancing. You would like that, I think.”

 

“I would,” she said, leaning forward herself. “But with so many choices, how would we decide what to see?” She felt dizzy; the shivering walls of the tent, the raucous noise of the camp outside: all had blurred, faded, diminished. The whole world narrowed to his face, pale and shifting in the candlelight. “Toss a coin? We wouldn’t argue about it, would we?” She let out a little laugh.

 

He looked at her for a long moment, then said, very seriously, “Never.”

 

They were several heartbeats of silence between them, and then she said, “Petyr, I’m afraid.” Her voice trembled: let him hear it, she thought. Let him think about it, later.

 

A moment later he had rounded the little table, and taken her hands in his. He knelt by her chair. He looked up at her, then, and startled her by laying his head in her lap. After a moment, she began to run her hands though the dark, thick hair, pausing over where it was greyer and curlier at the temples.

 

They sat there like that for some time, her breath slowly growing more even. She put her hand to his cheek. His cheek was very hot and her hand was very cold, and for an instant he seemed to flinch at her touch, but only for an instant; then he turned into her palm, closing his eyes.

 

Careful, she told herself. Be very careful. She kept her hand steady, as if he were an animal she might frighten with a too-sudden movement.

 

He had gone very still; indeed, he hardly seemed to be breathing. His eyes opened again. Some of the candles had burned down and in the growing darkness his eyes seemed to grow clearer, paler; his gaze limpid but still unfathomable.

 

Save me, she thought, looking back at him. Save me and I will save you.

 

His lips parted, and she waited, breathless, for him to say it: _yes, yes I will, yes_.

 

But the moment passed; he breathed again, and stood, very slowly, like a man waking from a deep sleep, and then he was Littlefinger again, and she was Sansa Stark, and they were players, or pieces, or perhaps both at once. Either way, they were in the game. She felt something in her straighten and grow cold.

 

He loomed above her, his face a mask of shadows. There was sadness in his eyes but whether it was real sadness or only the semblance of it she could not say.

 

“If only,” he said, and now he would not meet her eyes.

 

“If only,” she agreed, but he had already gone, the tent door flapping in the cold night air.


End file.
